


Parcels

by TheMuchTooMerryMaiden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Developing Relationship, Discussion of BDSM, M/M, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden/pseuds/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parcels, long thin parcels have been arriving in 221B Baker Street for the last couple of weeks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parcels

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag Challenge for [hannapalooza](http://hannapalooza.tumblr.com)
> 
> The prompt was: “Why are you so fascinated with riding crops Sherlock?”

For someone quite so easily distracted as Sherlock was most of the time his ability to focus on something was quite astounding.

The parcels had begun arriving a couple of weeks ago John estimated. At first one or two and then in the middle of the week half a dozen a day until there were better than thirty stacked up around their living room. It seemed to John that Sherlock was being purposely mysterious about it all and as a result he determined to ask him nothing at all about the parcels and after a little while the parcels stopped turning up in Baker Street and that was when it began to seriously irritate John because Sherlock didn’t open any of them. Not one so far as John could tell. The presence of the parcels became like an itch at the back of John’s skull. He wasn’t an overly curious person, at least he liked to think he wasn’t, though since the yardstick he was measuring against was Sherlock, it’s possible his frame of reference had become skewed in the last few months. What got to him was the fact that Sherlock, who was quite possibly the nosiest person John had ever met, didn’t want to look at whatever was in the parcels. For about five minutes John even contemplated sneakily opening one of the parcels but he gave that idea up when he fully accepted the fact that there was no earthly way he could cover up the fact that he’d opened one of them – Sherlock would certainly know and somehow John would have felt that he’d lost a competition of which, common sense told him, Sherlock wasn’t even aware. So he bided himself in as good an approximation of patience as he could muster.

The fact that they had two back to back cases helped of course, the running around and the danger and the hairsbreadth escapes certainly all helped, but when they got back to Baker Street the parcels were still there. They were still there no matter how much John tried to focus on something else.

The day after the second of the back to back cases, John slept in and then took his time in the bathroom, determining during the length of a long shower that he would use today to get up to date with his medical journals, possibly go for a walk in the afternoon. These days he didn’t often make plans, plans were something that people who didn’t live with Sherlock Holmes made, but today he allowed himself the luxury.

Wandering into the living room, a pile of journals under his arm John didn’t immediately notice that the parcels had been moved, he subconsciously noted that Sherlock was sat up to his ‘bench’ or as John preferred to think of it the kitchen table. John studiously ignored him but gradually it began to dawn on him that the parcels weren’t there. He glanced up quickly at Sherlock and saw that littered round him were the wrappings of the various parcels and in front of him on the table were a large number of riding crops. Just as quickly he looked away, determined not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of winning this one sided game that he probably didn’t even know he was part of. Instead John picked up the first of the journals and attempted to lose himself in ‘The Prevalence of Misdiagnosis in Primary Post-Partum Hypertension’. It didn’t work but it didn’t stop him trying for quite some time.

One of the problems was that Sherlock was at his most attractive when he was as focused as this, when the rest of the world had so clearly ‘gone away’ as far as Sherlock was concerned it was impossible, or at least impossible for John, not to wonder what it would be like to have that degree of Sherlock’s attention focused on him. Combined with, bloody riding crops, it was almost too much for him. 

John resolutely turned his mind back to ‘Toxoplasmosis Transmission Within Family Groups’ only to find that he was staring at Sherlock again after only three minutes. _Pull yourself together, Watson,_ he thought and turned his attention back to the journal on his lap, although this time he couldn’t even have told anyone what the article was about.

When he’d found himself staring at Sherlock as he examined something about the riding crops extremely closely, for the third time, he had to admit that this wasn’t going anywhere, he was going to ask at some time and he supposed it might as well be now. He got up and walked over to the table,

“Why are you so fascinated by riding crops, Sherlock?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth it struck him that if he’d really worked very hard indeed he could possibly have come up with something more suggestive to say and to cap that he was blushing like a teenager and having other definitely teenager-like reactions.

Sherlock looked up, bemusedly from the current object of his regard, turned back briefly to the notepad on the table and made a couple of tick marks, before he looked back up to John,

“What?” he clearly then replayed what John had said and answered the question, “What’s so fascinating about riding crops? Nothing as such, it just occurred to me that it might be possible to match the marks made by the riding crops to individual instruments. So I was looking at how distinctive they are.”

John swallowed; the thought of making marks with one or more of the riding crops was doing remarkable things to him. He cleared his throat, trying to ensure that his voice wouldn’t be either a squeak or an abnormally deep rumble when he spoke,

“Do riding crops turn up often enough in cases to be worth it?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said, musingly, “they seem to hold a fascination for people that I can’t quite understand. I’ll admit I’m hazy about what either party would get out of their ‘recreational’ use. Pain is pain after all; animals are programmed by evolution to avoid pain where they can.”

John cleared his throat again, hoping that Sherlock was not about to suggest that he went out to buy some cough syrup,

“I know why people do it, or at least I think I do,” he swallowed, “do you want to hear my theory?”

Sherlock looked directly at him and John could see his pupils widen and a faint flush begin to develop. Sherlock held John’s gaze as he nodded.

John picked up one of the crops and flexed it between his hands, noting how closely Sherlock was watching him, and he began to wonder where this was going to lead the two of them, where he wanted it to lead them even. He waited, waited until Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, waited until he had Sherlock’s full attention and he’d been right it did feel wonderful.

“The first thing is, it’s not about the pain. Well, I assume it is for some people, but not for most, I suspect, it’s about control, focus, concentration, the pain is a tool to help focus attention between two people. It’s not an uncommon technique, people put a pebble in their shoe to distract themselves from something else this is the same. When it’s just two people, especially when one of them finds it hard to stop thinking, to stop turning things over in their mind, then the pain is something to focus on. The other thing that people tend to miss is that it’s about caring.”

Briefly a sceptical expression passed over Sherlock’s face but he continued to stare at John, clearly wanting to hear more. John noticed that Sherlock had widened his stance and that the flush was spreading down the gorgeous length of his neck and for a moment John lost himself in thoughts of nibbling on that neck, teeth nipping at the stretched tendons, as Sherlock writhed under him. He gave himself a mental shake, later, perhaps, if he got this right.

“Seriously. I know you’re dubious about that and again it’s a matter of doing the thing right, I’m sure that lots of people get it wrong, probably the same people for whom it is about pain I suppose, but if you find the right ... person, then it’s definitely about caring. Caring enough to help their partner leave behind all the superfluous rubbish, caring enough to take them apart to the point where all that’s left is sensation, caring enough to know what will allow them to give themselves totally, without reservations, what will allow them to submit.”

With the harsh final ‘t’ of submit, John gently smacked the crop into his own hand.

Sherlock swallowed and when he spoke his voice was deep and dark,a rumble that John almost thought he could feel as much as he could hear,

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Yes,” John confirmed, wondering why after all this time he’d chosen to reveal this part of himself.

“I’ve never really been able to ... I mean there have always been so many distractions ...” he swallowed again and then squared his shoulders, “Would you, could you do that for me?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like more,” John replied truthfully, “but you need to be sure, Sherlock, you don’t get to wander off and get distracted, it’s all or nothing,”

“I know. I do want that, I do want ... you.”

John permitted himself a tight grin,

“Then choose your favourite,” he gestured at the crops, “and get upstairs.”


End file.
